3
Touched
Chamber of the Scholomance
875 A.D.
Lukos awoke to find that he lay on a smooth stone floor in a lake of his own blood. It was encrusted on his neck, smeared on his freshly shaved scalp. The great gaping wound in his throat had somehow knitted together. It was still spongy and painful, but as he gingerly explored with his fingers, there was no longer a wide, open, bleeding gash.
Was he dead now?
His strength almost faded again as he struggled up to his knees, and he fought the lure of unconsciousness. Darkness surrounded him. It clung to him like grasping hands. Raw and cold, panic swept over him. Ever since he’d been a child, he has always awoken in the dark like this—sweating, frightened, terrified enough to run. He had hid these fears because it was his destiny to be a great warrior, but they rose up now, and made him whimper.
He was too old to make such sounds, like a child. And in the blackness, he looked around for the demoness. Had she left him for dead?
Slowly, he grew accustomed to the dark. And he saw her, curled up on a shelf of stone, watching him. A robe of dark crimson swathed her, and she stared at him with sorrowful eyes. “I am sorry, Lukos. But your eyes are next.”
He threw up his hands, but a sharp, searing-hot point slammed into his right palm. Instinctively, he pulled his hand away. This time the red-hot poker went into his eye. As he screamed in pain, something grabbed his arms and restrained him. He howled.
He tried to fight. Some monster in the shadows had hold of him. He was raging against the grip, throwing his head wildly.
The pain. God above, the pain—
But despite his wild struggles, the poker drove into his left eye, completely blinding him.
This would kill him.
Unless he was already dead.
Did the dead still feel pain?
He would have cried, but the searing heat had taken away his tear ducts along with his eye.
He smelled her. Over the stench of his own flesh, over the excruciating agony, he knew she had come to his side. She knelt by him. Her hands went around his bare shoulders, and in her sultry voice, she chanted. The soft, lovely sound flowed around him like a vivid light and took away the pain.
“You cannot see him, Lukos. It is not for you to see him until you have completed your apprenticeship.”
He laughed in anger and bitterness. “I’m blinded. I’ll never see.”
“You will. Lukos, he can give you ultimate power. He can easily give you sight.”
“What do you do now? Cut off my cock so I can’t fuck?”
“No.” The demoness’s voice was soft and soothing. “You have endured all that you must for now. I will take you to the chamber, and you will rest there. Tomorrow, you will begin to learn.”
Learn. With his eyes gouged out? His throat slit? Each breath was a torture, and he was rasping and wheezing like an old man.
He’d run over corpses on the battlefield less wounded than this. “Am I dead?”
“You will be reborn, Lukos.”
She had opened his robe then and had taken hold of his cock. He had lost his eyes; he’d had his throat cut, but somehow she made his organ stand up. She straddled him, took him inside, and rode him. He could feel her slick heat engulfing his cock. He could smell her, smell the ripeness of their joining. He could feel her full buttocks slamming his groin. God, yes . . .
“You’re having sex with me—”
“No, I’m not. You are dreaming this, Lukos.” She slapped him. The sudden jolt of pain made his fantasy disappear. Instead of her creamy juices, he smelled the dankness of wet stone. Instead of warmth and pleasure, he felt sharp rocks beneath his knees.
“Sometimes men go mad from the fear and the pain, Lukos.
They lose themselves in a world of darkly erotic fantasy. They believe they are always having sex, but they are trapped in the fantasy. They starve to death because they no longer know to eat. They are sometimes killed. Those who go among the mortals are killed or committed to asylums. But in their own minds, they are in a world of constant orgy.” Her laugh was wry and cold.
“But you are too strong to seek that kind of escape, Lukos. I would not have chosen to be the one to guide you if I did not believe so.” She took his arm. “Come with me now. For you are soon to be a demon born. And I know that you will be the strongest yet. You will make me proud, Lukos. You will give me the world.”
As she led him, he clung to her, the only thing he could trust in his newly dark world.
He would have given her anything she asked for. If she’d wanted to cut out his heart, he would have let her.
He could taste the magic through her skin.
Zayan pressed his mouth to the Englishwoman’s delicate hand.
Magic thrummed through her, snapping within her, raging inside her. He could sense she was resisting it. She was not willing to accept the unearthly power within her. It frightened her.
Through the contact between his lips and her silky skin, he could sense all these things. He’d had one glimpse into her thoughts before she had somehow shuttered them to him. He had seen a lavish bedroom, filled with white silks and fluttering lace curtains. Another young woman, a brunette, lay in the bed, pale and drawn, smiling a weak smile. Miranda, the fragile inhabitant of the bed had whispered, I feel so much better today, and I think it is because of you.
He felt in Miranda, the woman whose hand he was kissing, a love he had almost forgotten—a feeling of tenderness heightened by the need to nurture.
In an instant, the image had vanished. But now he knew the name of the dainty innocent-looking woman who possessed the strongest magic power he had felt in decades—in centuries.
Miranda.
He turned her hand and kissed her palm. Miss Miranda rewarded him with an unwilling shiver of pleasure. Now he understood what had intrigued Sebastien de Wynter about Althea Yates, the vampire slayer—it was all that sensuality trapped behind such rigid propriety.
As much as he hated Lukos, he had agreed to the game of seduction as an amusement, something to pass the time with their pretty captive. Something to distract him from the urge to kill the vampire who had once tried to destroy him.
Now he knew Miranda was much more to him than just a game. All that magic in her could be his last hope.
He needed it.
Which meant he had to dominate her. And now that he knew she was no an ordinary mortal, he would have to find a different way to do that. Even now, she was staring at him with narrowed blue eyes, and he felt her resistance to his seduction. She was fighting him with everything she had. And at the moment, she was winning.
Zayan admired her strength, though strong women could not be trusted. If they chose to be deceitful, they were more destructive than any army. More vicious. By the gods, he had seen women cut down their own men with axes when the males had retreated from battle.
If he wanted to control this woman and her magic, he would have to try harder.
Expertly, he dabbed his tongue in the center of her palm and made her whimper. Slowly, teasingly, he flicked his tongue over her wrist. He sucked her skin and felt the magic throb beneath his lips, along with her pulse.
Miranda moaned. He felt a surge in her power as she struggled against the desire he ignited. Suddenly, he realized how incredible she would be in his bed, in a bout of resistance and magic and surrender.
Years ago, he made a bargain with the red power. To bring his children back to life, it had demanded magic—it devoured every kind of power. It wanted the magic of youth. The energy released in sex. It had demanded the power of other magical beings. In that decade, before he had been banished into imprisonment by Elizabeth, one of the vampire queens, he had drained the energy of some foolish angels and a few demons, and like a slave, he had turned that energy over and waited obediently for his dream to be realized.
What a damned fool he’d been.
He had quickly understood what the red power intended to do. It would always hold his children as a prize, as a lure to make him serve it. But it would never give him what it had promised.
But now he knew a way to take control of the red power. He could take Miranda’s magic and use it to first tempt the red power, then blackmail the red power into giving him what he longed for—his children.
He ached to see them. He yearned to hold them again.
But to claim her power, he had to bring three words to her lips: I love you. It would open her heart and break through her defenses. In that moment, he could take her magic force and make it his own.
This was more than just a physical seduction, more than a game. He had to break through to her heart.
Miranda kicked out wildly. “Y-you can force me to feel pleasure, but you will never seduce me!”
Zayan jerked his attention upward to see Lukos stroking his fingers along the neckline of her pelisse. Miranda opened her eyes wide. They locked with his. Hers were vivid blue—the brilliant shining blue of the waves that lapped at the southern shores of Italy.
She didn’t look frightened. She looked . . . hopeful. It shocked Zayan so much, he straightened from her wrist. Strangely, he could not draw away from her steady, determined gaze.
“You won’t seduce me,” she said again. “No matter what you do. But I want to touch you. I believe I can return your soul, Zayan.”
Did she really think she could save him, the naïve child? His answer was harsh. “You can’t, angel.”
“Let me touch you,” she said.
He had not expected this. She spoke to him as his wife used to. He was the general, but his wife had spoken sharply to him, had expected him to obey her command.
Zayan jerked back as the woman’s hand struck his chest, her fingers splayed wide. Heat surged through his pectorals, a hot spear through his muscles, a fiery grip around his heart. Her power held him transfixed. He couldn’t move.
By the gods, she was strong with magic.
Far more than he’d guessed.
His temperature soared; heat raced through his veins as though he were being consumed by fire. Could she make him burst into flame? Could her touch make him explode, burn to ash?
“Oh! Oh!” she cried. Her body was convulsing. She moaned.
She moved her hips in the fierce bounce of a woman caught in the throes of a powerful orgasm. Her lips opened wide as she rode out the pleasure.
Zayan’s nostrils flared at the tang of her juices. He could scent her cunny becoming wet and creamy. Lukos could scent her, too, he knew. Lukos could shift shape and become a wolf, which made the demon even more primal about sex than Zayan was.
“What in hell is she?” Lukos growled.
Still enduring the blasting heat, Zayan could barely speak.
“Not a demon,” he managed. “Not a vampire.” He drew in a deep breath as the heat began to ebb. He wasn’t going to go up in a ball of flame. “An avenging angel?” But he didn’t think so.
Miss Miranda slumped back against the seat. Her chest rose and fell. Zayan saw the horror in her eyes. The stark fear. She stared down at her own shaking hands.
She didn’t understand her own power. He read it in her thoughts before her intense emotions became a blur that he couldn’t understand. He’d never had that happen before. The only minds that could shutter themselves from him were those of vampire queens, and demons who had been Lucifer’s apprentices. But he had glimpsed the most powerful emotion Miranda felt—she was afraid of herself.
You don’t know what you are, do you? he asked softly in her thoughts. He tried to shield them from Lukos but doubted he
was successful. Zayan was the older vampire—and stronger, he believed. But not quite strong enough.
Helplessly, Miranda looked at him. “It’s never felt like that before. That’s never . . . never happened. I don’t know if I did anything.”
Sweetheart . . . Zayan had only ever spoken so softly and gently to his children. What exactly were you trying to do? You can’t believe your touch could return my soul.
Miranda couldn’t let them find out the truth. “I-I thought you could be saved,” she lied, “by a good soul.”
Lukos chuckled. “You thought what? The touch of a virtuous woman would drive his demons out?”
Mute, Miranda nodded her head. She prayed they thought she was just some impetuous do-gooder. What a fool she’d been to reveal herself. But she’d thought it would work. She had saved Aunt Eugenia, her brother, Simon, her sister-in-law, Caroline, the young boy in the park, and others over the last twelve years. She’d thought she could save a vampire.
Miranda rubbed her hand. It felt as though it had been burnt. She’d felt the heat and even thought it had gone into the vampire. It had seemed to bounce back into her.
That scorching heat had turned into desire—desire and arousal she didn’t want and couldn’t control. It had grown so strong.
She’d ached and throbbed, and had needed to rub between her thighs. She had squeezed them together, unable to fight the yearning. Then she’d burst—she couldn’t explain it any other way.
She hugged herself. That explosive feeling must be what drove her brother and his new wife to their bedroom so often and was responsible for those agonized moans Caroline made that could be heard through the bedchamber walls.
It had to be. Her pleasure had been so intense she’d feared her heart might stop, or burst.
Her cheeks still burned. She couldn’t catch her breath.
Miranda stared at Zayan. He smiled at her. He still had fangs. So it hadn’t worked. And she didn’t believe she had returned his soul.
Why not? What had gone wrong?
Was it because he was not dead but undead?
She remembered the terror she’d felt when Simon had drowned, when she had been eleven and he had been thirteen.
It had been like her heart had stopped along with his. She’d been almost physically sick, her stomach leaping upward, bile in her throat. Tears had been streaming down her face. She’d begged him to live. She’d touched his heart. Then he’d coughed and sputtered and had thrown up a lot of horrid, slimy water.
It had been the same when she had saved Aunt Eugenia—she had desperately wanted her aunt to be alive again. With her parents, she’d never had the chance. Her mother had died when she was very young; her father just over three years ago, but on shipboard while crossing from Calais during the heady newness of peace. His body had been lost.
She thought of the child in Hyde Park. Even though she hadn’t known the little boy, it had shattered her heart to think he would die. That he was dead. Each time, her heart had been broken and she had been determined to bring life back. Each time, she had truly cared.
She could never care enough about these vampires to give them their lives back. That avenue of escape was lost to her.
The carriage began to slow its breakneck pace. In the space between the window and the shade covering it, Miranda saw hints of light. They were in a village now. This—this would be her chance to get free.
She turned beseeching eyes to Zayan. “Please . . . I am so hungry. I need . . .” She blushed, as a respectable lady should while discussing the privy. “I need to relieve myself. Please?”
It was Lukos who answered. “We’ll stop. I need to feed.”
* * *
Coaches clattered into the yard beside the inn. Twilight had settled in, and only a strip of soft violet remained along the horizon. Lamps burned, and Miranda noticed both Zayan and Lukos hid their faces to ensure the light did not glint on their reflective eyes.
Lukos held her wrist and she could not break free of his hold. Could she scream to the surrounding crowd—the families and gentlemen and elderly ladies leaving coaches or approaching others?
There were children in the crowd.
And she remembered the magic that Zayan had done. He could possibly kill dozens of people with his power if he threw a bolt of it into the crowd to stop her.
She had no choice but to go along with the vampires. And then find a chance to escape.
“We’ll go to the dining room and you may have a meal.”
It was on the tip of her tongue to sarcastically thank Zayan for being so kind. But she bit down. Best to let them think she was so frightened she would obey them.
Lukos shook his head. His long hair fluttered in the breeze, and his eyes gave a betraying flash of silver. “I need to hunt.”
Miranda caught her breath. He meant he was going to hunt down an innocent person and take their blood.
“No, you can’t.” She pointed to her own throat. “If you need to feed, take the blood from me. I don’t care. But I won’t let you hurt anyone else.”
“You have no choice, love. And I can’t feed from you. But if you wish, you may choose the person I’ll feed from.” Lukos waved his arm to encompass the crowd of innocent people.
She stared. A mother embraced a child. A woman urged four young boys toward a stage that was preparing to leave. A couple gazed lovingly at each other in a tender good-bye. An elderly man patted the hand of his elderly wife. She couldn’t select anyone. Each person was loved and cherished by someone. They all deserved to live.
“You’re evil!” she spat.
“Yes, angel, I am. I served Lucifer. I was born to be evil.”
“If you must feed, why not bite Zayan! Or bite a pig!”
Lukos merely inclined his head. “I need a mortal’s fresh, rich blood, angel.”
Was there anyone there who deserved a vampire’s bite? A man who abused his wife? A vicious man who preyed on children? A woman who snared innocents for brothels? A murderer? A thief?
She could not do this.
But she couldn’t let him just select anyone. “Who would you choose?” she asked softly.
“When you eat, sweetheart, do you select the dish that tempts you most? Would you choose mutton over lamb? Or tough beef over a succulent roast?”
She shuddered. “You’d chose someone young and pretty, you mean.”
“Sometimes I choose children.”
Miranda clapped her hand to her mouth. “That’s unspeakably evil!”
Should she scream? Perhaps the vampires’ magic couldn’t hurt all these people—but what if her horror led to one death?
“I would choose children who had little hope, angel, and then I would change them. I would give them unimaginable strength and speed. I would give them the chance to turn the world upon its ear.”
She shuddered. “Can you not feed without hurting someone?”
Lukos winked. “For you, pet, I’ll try.”
She didn’t believe him. But Zayan had hold of her arm and Lukos strode away. He was so tall, so striking with his long
hair and cloak that he did not vanish in the milling crowd—he stood out. Men watched him warily; women stared with obvious desire. He prowled toward the shadows.
She could not swallow over the lump in her throat.
Zayan’s arm slid around her waist. There were men walking with women this way. Those women wore low-cut gowns, had rouged lips, and were obviously doxies. People would think that of her.
She choked on a laugh. They would think her a whore. They would have no idea she was going to be a vampire’s victim.
“Aren’t you going to feed?” she whispered.
Zayan cocked his head. “I do not need to yet, my dear.”
Blast, she’d hoped he would want to leave her to feed. Of course, he wouldn’t let her go. She was likely to be his meal.
“But I expect you are hungry,” he said. “Let us get you some dinner.”
“What do you plan to do to me? If you intend to kill me, why feed me?”
A stage arrived, rushing into the yard before Zayan answered. He watched it in a pensive silence. The grooms jumped down, the doors opened. Boxes were thrown down as the people began to spill out. Other grooms hurried forward to unhitch the horses.
And others rushed forward to greet friends and to make ready to take their journey.
Was he watching to choose his victim? She had to act. She turned and pointed across the yard. “Look! Our carriage is leaving! It must be Lukos!”
As Zayan spun around, she pulled away from him as hard as she could. His surprise—and anger—had loosened his grip.
Her pelisse tore, but she was free!
She yanked up her hems and plunged into the crowd.
“ ’Ere miss, have a care!”
Someone elbowed her in the back. She tripped, almost fell, but grabbed a man’s coat to stop herself. She stumbled forward.
She heard a roar behind her. That must be Zayan and she cringed, waiting for a bolt of his magical power to strike her.
A man shouted. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the man sail backward off his feet and land hard in the mud.
Zayan wasn’t using magic.
She squeezed and pushed her way between bodies.
Someone shoved her forward and she slammed against the side of the stage. Her wind flew out of her chest. Gasping, she raced around the large vehicle.
What was she going to do? She couldn’t outrun a vampire.
Could she leap into a passing carriage? Three were leaving and she raced blindly toward them.
“There’s been a boy trampled!” someone shouted. “My god!”
Standing still amidst the cries of shock and horror, Miranda slowly turned toward the gathering crowd. She could not just run away now. She had to do something. Shivering, glancing around for Zayan, she made her way to the circle of people who were all trying to crush forward, to see. She had to elbow her way between these heartless people. They weren’t doing anything, they were feeding on horror and disaster like a vampire fed on blood. And it was like trying to fight a raging current.
“Move,” she commanded one man. She had to kick another to get him to jump aside. Through the gap between bodies, she saw a tiny form sprawled in the dirt and a woman leaning over him, screaming, tears streaking down her face.
She had to act now. She didn’t have much time.
From behind her, a hand clamped down on her right wrist, holding her captive. “Got you, you witch,” a man growled.
That voice. She recognized it. Her heart threatened to leap out of her chest. Miranda twisted to meet the hard gaze of James Ryder—the vampire slayer who wanted to kill her.
Rescued
“It’s no use. She will not take my milk anymore. She doesn’t even want blood.”
Althea Yates, Lady Brookshire, heard the frantic desperation in her voice. How could she be so helpless? So useless? She did not know what to do. Her child wouldn’t eat, no matter what she tried. She had consulted with midwives, wet nurses, experienced women, and vampires, too, and nothing worked.
Her maid hurried away. Althea heard Nan’s rapid footsteps on the stone floor of the ancient castle’s corridor. The frightened girl would be fetching Yannick and Bastien, Althea guessed.
If her daughter didn’t eat, surely she would waste away.
Althea licked away the tear that dripped to her lip. She could cry. She may be a vampire, but she could cry. But what would tears solve?
She gazed down at baby Serena, known as Serry, so as not to be confused with Serena, Lady Sommersby, Althea’s very best friend. Althea smiled at soft, puckered lips that blew tiny bubbles, and at the fragile, translucent lids, and the dark lashes that lay along small cheeks. One thick lock of downy blond hair lay along her daughter’s cheek. She guessed Serry must look as both her husbands had when they were infants—since both men were blonde.
Was Serry immortal, as she, Yannick, and Bastien were? Althea didn’t know. No one could tell her that. But now that her little daughter was nearly three months, she would not eat.
“Please, little one, please take some food,” Althea whispered.
She clasped the tiny hand. Her daughter’s fingers curled around Althea’s baby finger and clutched her tight. Serry had been so strong when she was first born. So healthy. For the first few days, her daughter had drunk from her breast with gusto, had always wanted to feed. Her breasts had swelled large with milk, and she’d known the most intense pain as the milk flooded in.
Right now, her breasts were beginning to ache again. Just the thought of feeding set them off. The pain would get more and more excruciating because Serry would not take her nipple and would not take her milk. Her breasts would become engorged and rock hard, and then, even though pain shot through her when she just touched her bosom, she’d have to ruthlessly massage the fluid out herself.
And soon it would stop coming in altogether, she’d been told.
Althea stroked the soft cheek. “Please, Serry, you must eat.”
But the tiny fingers released their grip. “You are going to waste away. Please, please, please.”
Althea, the maid came in a panic. Bastien’s worried tone reached her through her thoughts. Within a heartbeat, he strode into her bedchamber. His golden hair was loose and drifted over his shoulders. Even in darkness, she saw the stark fear in his eyes. He glanced to her bared bosom, her breasts huge and full, her hands working painfully to make the milk pour down her chest, where it soaked into a linen towel.
It gave her strength to share the burden. “I don’t know what to do, Bastien! I don’t know how to make her eat. I don’t even know what to feed her.”
“Yannick has sent for Lady Draycott.”
“Serena’s mother, Eve?” One of the oldest vampires—the first Eve created by God for Adam, but Eve had then been rejected by Adam and had long harbored hurt and pain.
“She bore a vampire child,” Bastien reminded her.
“But her daughter Serena was not fully vampire at birth.
And Eve has already refused to help me. Yannick forbid her to come to this house because of her cold refusal.”
“If she can help you now, he’s willing to forgive.”
“She won’t help now. She will not change her mind. There’s nothing we can do. We are going to have to watch our child die.
I can’t stand it!”
“No! It won’t be like that. I vow that it won’t.”
She knew Bastien—one of her two husbands—possessed great strength and bravery, but in this he was as powerless as she. “The truth is, Bastien, no child of two vampires has survived before! The vampire queens finally admitted this to me after letting me think I could bear a child. They believe we can’t breed.” Her daughter was a warm bundle in her arms. Was she condemned to watch her just fade away? Was Serry condemned to die? Was this payment for the fact that she, Bastien, and Yannick had defied death?
She had come from Italy to the Carpathians for answers, had forced them all to travel into these remote mountains in search of hope, and had found . . . nothing.
Bastien was on his knees in front of her. He laid his large, strong hand on his daughter’s stomach. Even though they could not be certain whether Yannick or Bastien had actually been Serry’s father, both men considered themselves to be. And she considered them both to be. It didn’t matter who had actually given her Serry. She belonged to both men. And they were both loving and devoted to their child.
“She is so innocent and so beautiful. I can’t bear to lose her,”
Althea whispered.
He looked to her in shock. Perhaps he believed a mother never gave up hope. “We won’t.”
“Unless we can find someone who can perform miracles—”
“We will.”
“Who would perform a miracle for us, Bastien? We’re vampires.”
Warm and comforting, his hand stroked her cheek. His thumb brushed away her tears. “Sweetheart, that does not make us unworthy of miracles. I promise you that.”
Mr. Ryder gripped her arms tight and dragged her away from the boy and his sobbing, frantic mother. Miranda sank her heels into the dirt and clawed at his arm. “Stop! Don’t you see the boy is dying?”
Ryder wore a long greatcoat of deep burgundy, and a tall beaver hat was tipped over his pale blond hair. “Indeed,” he drawled, “I saw him fall in front of the carriage.”
Good god. Miranda stared up into the slayer’s deep blue eyes. There was no compassion in them, only triumph because he’d captured her. She remembered again the words he’d spoken to her in the park the day before she’d run away. . . .
You are a demon. Or a witch. Only an evil, otherworldly being can possess the power of magic. And as a slayer, it is my sworn duty to destroy you.
She’d fought fear of this insane slayer then and she could do it now. “You have to let me go to the boy, Mr. Ryder. I can save his life, and he is only a child.”
He hauled her another step away and her boots skidded. She didn’t have the strength to resist. His breath, scented with the smoke of a cheroot, washed over her. “It’s too late. Bringing him back to life will only ensure that these simpletons will tear you apart.”
“But you only want to kill me. What do I care how I die, if I can give that child a chance to live?”
“It is my duty to ensure that these people do not know what they have amongst them.”
She didn’t even know what she was. Ryder spoke as though he knew, but all she could think of was the dying boy. And something Ryder said sliced through her fear. “You said you saw him fall,” she accused. “Couldn’t you have stopped it? Or saved him?”
“The little wretch had tried to pick my pocket.”
He’d let the child fall beneath a carriage. “And that meant you wouldn’t raise a hand to stop a death?”
“It brought you to a halt, didn’t it?”
Horror hit her like ice water. “You let an innocent child be crushed just to capture me.”
Who was worse—the vampires or the vampire slayer? She was caught in a nightmare, where every man around her was a villain.
Mr. Ryder pulled her to him, grinning, and she stumbled against him. Her knee flew up, for she’d seen maids protect themselves from arrogant, lecherous men this way. She slammed right between his thighs.
“Christ Jesus!” Mr. Ryder let go of her arm. His face distorted and he howled in pain. His hand clamped between his legs and he sank to his knees.
Thank heaven! Miranda darted away, almost falling over the uneven ground. She should run for her life, but she couldn’t do that. Instead, she shoved aside a curious man who stood holding his tankard of ale and raced toward the fallen little boy.
Heat. Overbearing heat. Ironic that he had once served Lucifer, but he found this taproom, with its roaring fire and tightly packed human bodies, as hot as an oven. Lukos’s enhanced senses choked on the stench of human sweat, foul breath, stale ale, and even urine, which implied that some of the drunken crowd either relieved themselves in a corner or let it dribble down their legs.
But he also heard the thrumming of blood and the pounding of strong, healthy hearts. God, he hungered. He hated taking blood—he had seen so much spilled on Wessex battlefields a thousand years ago, that it had sickened him to be like a scavenger searching for stupid prey. His father had told him that power was what elevated men above beasts. For him, it was what had made him into one.
Lukos moved into the shadowy corner of the taproom. Here the patrons were slouched over tankards. Here were those seeking to drink their way to oblivion.
He offered another way to escape the mortal world—
A hand grabbed his buttocks.
He turned slowly, aware of heavy breathing behind him, aware of the smell of sex, cloying perfume, onions, and beer.
A woman sidled close to him, shoving her bosom beneath his nose, and her hand boldly caressed his arse beneath his cloak.
Fear, need, and sexual hunger burned in her small black eyes.
Her mouth was thin and deep lines bracketed it. Wrinkles surrounded her eyes, and her skin was dark and puffy beneath.
Broken blood vessels covered her nose.
Her life had aged her. She was perhaps in her middle thirties, but she had been used up by mortal life. Lukos heard the labored beat of her heart. He could smell the sickness around her.
Drink, disease, hopelessness—this woman was dying. She was selling her body for a little comfort, a little money, a little warmth and contact.
His lip curled. He would take her. “Come, love. Do you have a room?”
The prostitute shook her head. “I don’t rate one anymore.
But I don’t charge much; you can take me in the corner outside.
Or in the stable. It’s warm there.”
Lukos glanced around. The young barmaid cast him a saucy glance. All the women in the room were beginning to look at him. To want him.
But Lukos wrapped his arm around the waist of the woman cooing beside him. “Come, love, let’s find a place.”
She led him out of the low door and they left the heat for the cool air of the spring evening. He could feel the effort it took her to breathe. Her fist went to her mouth to smother a cough.
He stopped her and drew her back in the shadows that had gathered here, at this corner of the building.
She tugged her bodice down so her full, white left breast jumped up over the tight fabric and her nipple puckered in the brisk air, long and chocolate brown. She was hauling up her skirts when he leaned in and blew his breath gently by her ear.
“You’re dying, love,” he said softly.
Her skirts stopped at the top of her stockings. Fearful eyes met his. “What on earth do you mean, sir?”
“Would you like to be strong again? Stronger than you’ve ever been? Strong enough to take any man that hits you and break his neck?”
She tried to pull away. He pushed her back against the wall.
Scarlet cream smeared her lips and sat in circles on her wrinkled cheeks. Henna-dyed curls fell around her face.
He used to transform dying street urchins into the undead.
He would do it with this woman. It amused him to save the damned, to give them strength in a world that left them powerless.
“Do you want revenge on those who’ve hurt you?” he asked.
“Couldn’t you have had more than this, my love?”
She shook, staring at him. Captured by his gaze. But there was a core of strength in her, a yearning to survive—he felt it.
“I can give you a gift of everlasting life. . . .” He licked her neck. His tongue almost curled at the taste of sweat, at the gritty feel of her skin.
“N-no, sir,” she managed, but she had no choice.
Lucifer had held him captive in a cell buried underground in rock for a thousand years, and then the earth had rumbled and shook and had split open before his eyes. He’d been free—free to feed, to search for his destined mate, to prepare for his revenge. It had been short lived. Within days he had been captured by Eve, the oldest vampire queen, and imprisoned again.
This time with damned Zayan, the bloody ruthless vampire who had captured his sister Ara for Lucifer. Unfortunately, they’d been trapped in a sort of paradise, where it had been impossible for him to kill Zayan. He’d had no choice but to work with Zayan and combine their power to escape.
In the brief time he’d been free on the earth, Lukos had fed from mortal necks. Each time, he’d felt an intense rush of sexual arousal.
This time he felt nothing. Only an anger at the hunger that needed to be sated. Had imprisonment changed him? His slow heartbeat sped up slightly. Feed. You must feed or die.
Not die. He had too much to do first. He had a thousand-year-old prophecy to fulfill.
He wound his fingers in his prey’s dirty hair, jerked her head to the side, and sank his fangs into her flesh.
“Help me! Please help me! Help my son!”
Miranda sank to her knees at the side of the motionless boy.
His anguished mother was crouched on the other side of him.
She had her arms wrapped around her boy and was sobbing against his chest. People crowded in closer and closer, forming a tight circle of mud-splattered skirts and boots, but no one did anything to help.
It angered her that people would do nothing but gawk, but the packed crowd gave her a few seconds before Mr. Ryder could capture her again.
“Oh, Will. Open yer eyes, please, me wee lovey.” The mother’s sobs echoed in Miranda’s head.
She could not ignore a plea for help. She could not.
“Please move away from him for a moment. Let me see what is wrong,” she urged the mother, but the woman would not budge, and Miranda had to grasp the back of the woman’s rough gown and pull her away.
Bleary, tear-stained eyes looked up into hers. “He’s dying.
Please . . .”
Miranda touched the boy’s throat. She felt no pulse. She slid her hand down to his small chest. She felt that sucking, hollow sense she got when someone had died.
“It’s too late, miss.”
She barely spared a glance at the morose-looking gentleman who’d made the pronouncement. Quickly, she babbled, “Oh, no.
Children can deceive you. This happened to my wee brother—”
As she let the words flow, she put her hand on the boy’s chest.
She had to clench her teeth as the warmth of her power rushed through her, but she found her tongue again. “He’d fallen in the pond and we thought he was gone. We’d thought there was no hope, but then one of the grooms hit him on his back—” She pressed harder. The heat roared down her arm and her muscles jerked with the power. It shot into the boy’s body through her fingers.
“All this water rushed out of him, and suddenly he started sputtering and his eyes opened wide.” She kept lying. She had to make this not look like a miracle. “Before our eyes he had come right back to life—” Her hand hummed on top of the boy. This story was the true story of what had happened to Simon.
Miranda could feel this boy’s heartbeat—not through her fingertips, but in her soul. His pulse sped, then slowed, working erratically as the power surged through her.
What did everyone around her see? Could they guess what she was doing? Could they sense that she had a power that no one, not even she, could understand?
The boy’s heartbeat began to settle in the steady, fast patter of a small child’s. He would live. She was certain of it—so certain that the heat began to fade in her. The thrumming that filled her senses and screamed in her ears began to blissfully subside.
She saw the boy’s lashes flicker. His eyes were going to open.
Gulping in a breath—it felt as though she didn’t breathe while the power surged through her—she turned to Will’s mother.
“Did you send this boy to pick a gentleman’s pocket?” she asked softly.
The mother flushed. Beneath her tattered straw hat, she gave a surly, sly look. “We’ve got to eat.”
“But he’s just a child, and that thievery almost cost him his life.”
Resentment simmered behind the woman’s eyes.
Will’s eyes opened. Wide, clear blue, and darting about in fear and confusion.
“Oh, me wee lad.” His mother gathered him up and held him tight, and her straw hat tipped to the side. Tears ran down her pale cheeks.
Miranda didn’t doubt that Will willingly did his thieving.
He probably felt the responsibility already for his family. She dug out some coins she’d slipped into a small pocket in her pelisse. She had only moments. She heard angry protests behind her. Mr. Ryder must be pushing his way through the crowd, and within moments he’d have her. Panicked, she looked around, but the circle had tightened as she performed her miracle, and already the story was spreading from mouth to eager ear—a boy had been dead and some unknown woman had brought him back to life.
Will was crying along with his mother now; he’d have pain, but that would fade soon. She put the money in his hand.
Strong arms grasped her shoulders and pulled her back. She cried out, but the sound was swallowed by the crowd, and the firm hand dragged her into the crush of people.
“Got you, you soft-hearted twit,” Mr. Ryder growled by her ear.
“Better that than a monster,” she gasped.
He was dragging her through the crowd again. She realized he held a pistol, which was making the sea of bodies open for him.
“That pistol is drawing more attention than my miracle,” she snapped at him.
The look of raw fury he gave her made her quiver. He yanked her along and she could see the gleam of lamps now, between the people, which meant he’d have her free of the crowd in an instant.
She could try to run. Would he shoot her? Or worse, would he try to kill her and hit someone else?
Roughly, he shoved her through the sparser grouping of people, toward the carriages that still flowed in and out of the yard. The story was spreading like wildfire. She heard the word witch muttered, then laughter and denials.
“You see,” Ryder snarled. “I’ll be more merciful than they will.”
“I doubt that.” How infuriating to have magic power yet be so powerless now. At least she’d saved Will. If that was her last act in life, it was worth it.
The pistol drove into her side. “Hurry toward the stables, Miss Bond.”
Miss Bond. He was going to blow her away with his pistol, but he still adhered to good manners. She choked on the hysterical laugh that bubbled up.
The hum was behind them now. Then she heard a man shout, “Where did she go?”
And the babble rose again.
Mr. Ryder shoved her forward and she stumbled against the stone wall of the stable. The tang of manure came to her nose, making her gag. The low whinny of horses filled her ears, and she filled her lungs and screamed.
No one came. No one shouted or called out to find out what was wrong. A woman’s screams weren’t unusual, weren’t enough to bring the stablehands out to the rescue.
Ryder’s hand clamped over her mouth. The leather tasted of dirt and sweat, and was smooth from holding reins. The pressure crushed her lips against her teeth and she tasted the coppery warmth of her own blood.
He spun on his heel. She felt weightless for a moment, then the stone wall of the stable slammed hard into her back. Tears sprang instantly. Her breath exhaled into his hand. More blood.
She had to swallow hard to take it down, it welled so fast.
“You think you saved that boy, don’t you?” he rasped by her ear. “You brought him back from the dead. That’s what you think, isn’t it? That’s not what you’re doing. You don’t have any bloody idea how you’re cursing the people you think you save.”
Cursing? She stared at him. Could it be true? She’d just thought they would live—she’d never thought beyond that.
But Ryder belonged to the Royal Society, and they must know more about her than she did.
Ryder leaned closer, until she could see the silvery sheen of moonlight cross his blue eyes. “You’re a virgin, aren’t you? A baron’s daughter and a treasure in your world. A shame to kill you. But you’ve got to be stopped.”
The pistol was underneath her heart, and his hand was still clamped over her mouth. He’d shoot her, tear her apart, splatter most of her against the stone wall, and steal her final scream with his hand.
A black shape materialized behind Mr. Ryder. Moonlight rippled over dark fur, flashed on teeth as a jaw opened wide.
Long, curved fangs drove into Mr. Ryder’s throat, and the wolf pulled back, dragging the vampire slayer off her. Ryder clawed at the animal’s snout and punched it with the pistol.
Wild panic was in his eyes. The wolf was a huge beast, as black as night.
She should run back to the inn’s yard. She should cry for help.
She should cry for the magistrate. She should save Mr. Ryder’s life—
Bang!
With a burst of smoke, a deafening roar, the pistol fired. She gasped. The pistol’s muzzle was right against the wolf’s throat.
Blood spurted, but the animal did not drop. It did not even loosen its grip. It reared up, dragging Mr. Ryder, then flung him to the side. He screamed as he flew, then landed with a thud in a muddy puddle.
A flash of light dazzled her—it was like watching small diamonds being thrown in the air. Then Lukos stood there, fangs long and red with blood, his eyes ablaze, reflecting light like silver coins.
Lukos caught her in his arms and she didn’t fight. His chest was broad and solid as he drew her to him and held her tight.
His hands were big, his splayed fingers a shield for her back.
She didn’t even care that he had his other huge hand under her bottom.
His embrace felt so protective. She’d rather be with Lukos than with Mr. Ryder.
Lukos swept her into his arms, balanced her there easily, and began to run. “Where are we going?” she demanded. He’d returned because he’d fed. She guessed that. She didn’t want to know. Her stomach turned somersaults inside her.
“The carriage,” he growled. “Then the hell away from here.”
His long strides were taking them around the inn on the side away from the yard, through the black shadows cast by the trees.
“Who in hell was he?” Lukos demanded.