Devoured by Darkness

“No, it’s more a corridor that runs between them. I use it when I need to travel in a hurry.” She flicked a deliberate glance down his half naked body. “Or when I’m trying to escape from a demented vampire.”



He turned a complete circle, his hand clutching his dagger as he studied the seemingly solid mist that surrounded them.



“How do we get out?”



Laylah frowned. Tane was acting … peculiar. Which in itself was peculiar.



Vamps were nothing if not predictable.



Arrogant, dangerous, and sickeningly aware of their superiority.



Could it be that the mighty Tane was actually anxious to find himself in the mists?



Swift to take advantage, Laylah headed toward the unconscious gargoyle.



“The same way we got in,” she said.



“Then do it.”



“No.”



“Laylah.”



She scooped Levet into her arms, swallowing a groan. Gods. What did the creature eat? Lead?



“I’m taking the gargoyle to London and you can’t stop me,” she grunted, headed through the mists.



Swearing, Tane followed in her wake. “Why is it so important that you go to London?”



“I have to find the Jinn.”



“Is it a relative of yours?” he snapped.



“That’s what I intend to discover. I never …” she bit off her revealing words.



Naturally he couldn’t let well enough alone.



“What?”



She flashed him an annoyed frown. “I thought I was the only one. Okay?”



He abruptly stiffened, as if bothered by her stark honesty. Then with a curse, he glanced toward the fog, his expression shuttered.



“Get us out of here and I will see that you get to London.”



Did she have stupid tattooed on her forehead?



“Liar.”



“What did you call me?” he snapped.



“I called you a liar.” She turned her head to meet the smoldering honey gaze. “We both know if I was idiotic enough to return us to the barn there’s no way in hell you would let me go to London.”



Chapter 4



The eighteenth century terrace house near Green Park in London was considered a fine example of Robert Adam’s architecture. It was, in fact, a great pride of the historical society, although the neighbors weren’t nearly so enthused.



Certainly there was a classical beauty in the aging bricks and simple portico. The windows were tall with carved stone swags set above them. And it was rumored the interior was even more stunning. Carved marble staircases and grand rooms with painted ceilings, Chippendale furniture, and priceless works of art.



But the museum-quality perfection couldn’t erase the chill of evil that shrouded the building or make the beautiful Lady Havassy any less unnerving when she made her rare appearance.



It was said that the exquisitely beautiful woman with long dark curls and flashing black eyes that contrasted so sharply with her pale, pale skin was some sort of Hungarian nobility. The locals didn’t care where she came from, only that there had been a rash of disappearances since her arrival some ten years before.



More amused than concerned by the suspicions of the humans, Marika ran a hand through her glossy curls as she absently descended into the cellars deep beneath the city streets. She was wearing a thin, gauzy gown that emphasized her lush curves, but did nothing to battle the damp chill in the air. Not that it mattered. A vampire was as impervious to the weather as she was to nosy neighbors.



As she reached the cement floor, the torches flared to life and a tall man with silver hair that spilled halfway down his back approached from the shadows.



Most women would consider Sergei Krakov handsome. He had a narrow face with high Slavic cheekbones and icy blue eyes that held a cunning intelligence. His body was lean and muscular and at the moment covered in a fine Gucci suit in a pale shade of gray.



Marika, however, didn’t keep the mage around for his male beauty or for his taste in expensive clothing.



Allowing him to take her hand and lead her across the open room, she glanced through the window at the attached cell. She grimaced at the pretty young blonde who was chained to the wall.



The female’s head was slumped forward, her long curtain of hair covering her face. Her naked body was boneless, straining against the manacles that held her upright.



“Is she to your taste?” Sergei urged.



Marika tapped a crimson nail against the window, not particularly surprised when the woman remained in her comatose state. The bruises blooming on her pale skin revealed that Sergei had already taken his own pleasure.



“Did you break her?”



Sergei chuckled, no hint of apology on his lean face. “She might be a trifle damaged around the edges, but she still has some fight left in her.”



With a sound of disgust, Marika turned away, a hand pressed to her aching forehead.



“Perhaps later.”



Sergei hurried to her side, his arm wrapping around her shoulders.



“You must eat, Marika. You are too important to allow yourself to become weakened.” He made a shallow effort at concern. “Do you prefer a fey? Or maybe you’re in the mood for a harpy? They always scream so sweetly.”



“Enough, Sergei.” With a casual twist of her hand she had Sergei by the neck and was slamming him against the wall. “I’m not a child. If you want to fuss over someone return to your plaything.”



Sergei passively dangled from the fingers wrapped around his throat. He hadn’t survived several centuries as her favorite pet by being stupid.



Waiting until she’d regained control of her swift, gypsy temper and at last released him, Sergei smoothed his black satin tie and summoned an expression of concern that was almost convincing.



“Please, tell me what’s troubling you.”



With a hiss, she paced to the center of the floor, her hand again pressed to her temple.



“It’s her. She’s restless.”



Sergei didn’t need any further explanation.



There was only one her.



His brows snapped together. “Impossible.”



She narrowed her dark eyes. “Be careful how you speak to me. In my current mood I might just manage to forget I have need of you.”



He raised his hands in a gesture of peace. “I only meant that she is wrapped in layers of protective spells. A nuclear explosion couldn’t disturb her.”



“Maybe your spells are losing their …” She deliberately paused, her gaze lowering to his impressive pack age tucked into the Gucci slacks. “Potency. Do they have Viagra for magic? You’re growing old, after all.”



His lips curled with a pure male confidence. “There’s nothing wrong with my potency.”



“Then why is she whispering in my head?”



His cockiness faded as Marika allowed her power to sear into his skin with a brief, icy warning. It was ironic really. Her gift had once been to heal others. Since being turned, that same gift allowed her to torture with exquisite precision.



He nervously cleared his throat. “What is she saying?”



Marika’s pleasure in causing another pain was forgotten as she clenched her hands. She wasn’t sure when the provoking whispers had started. At first they had been so faint that she’d dismissed them. It wasn’t that unusual for her to sense Kata despite the numerous barriers that separated them.



Their connection was too intimate to be completely muted.



But over the past nights the distant buzz had become a desperate chant that refused to leave her in peace.



“Laylah,” she revealed. “Over and over again.”



“Laylah. A name?”



“How would I know?” she snapped.



“The two of you have always been close,” Sergei attempted to soothe. “You’re certain it has no meaning for you?”



She sank onto the divan, the heavy gold bangles that encircled her wrists shimmering in the torchlight.



“The bitch is obviously trying to drive me insane.”



Sergei paced the room, his brow furrowed. “Or offer a warning.”



Marika reached for the goblet of fresh blood that had been left on the lacquer table beside the divan. She preferred her dinner straight from the source, but at the moment she was too distracted to make the effort.



“Bloody twit,” she growled. “In case you’ve forgotten the last few times we roused Kata she tried to curse me. Why the hell would she try to warn me now?”



“I didn’t mean she was trying to warn you on purpose,” Sergei protested, grimacing at the reminder of Kata’s insane fury when they’d attempted to question her. “Obviously something is disturbing her enough that she’s managed to battle through the spells I laid on her. I doubt she’s even aware you’re picking up her thoughts.”



“What the hell could be bothering her? She’s buried beneath six feet of earth, surrounded by rune stones and guarded by the Sylvermyst.” She took another deep drink of the blood, pausing to deliberately lick the thick sweetness from her lips, enjoying the sight of Sergei’s twitch of unease. He should be nervous, she thought with savage pleasure. She was in the mood to hurt someone. Of course, she was always in the mood to hurt someone. “Unless there’s something you need to tell me?” she continued in icy tones. “You surely couldn’t be stupid enough to try and speak with Kata without me, would you?”



His throat convulsed as he struggled to swallow. “I’ve learned my lesson.”



“Are you certain?” she purred. “I could give you a small reminder of what happens to those creatures who attempt to betray me.”



The handsome face paled. As well it should. Although it had been nearly fifty years ago, a man did not forget being slowly skinned alive during the long hours of the night, only to be healed the next morning so the torture could begin again. Especially when the punishment lasted for several years.



A cruel smile twisted her lips. He should have known the minute he’d managed to trick Kata into revealing the location of her half-breed daughter he should have come to her. No, he should have run like a bat out of hell to her to reveal what he’d discovered.



Instead he’d turned traitor and nearly ruined everything.



Stupid bastard.



“I did it for us.”



Her laugh sliced through the cellar. “Oh Sergei, you’re a vain, grasping son of a bitch who would happily put his own mother on the sacrificial altar to gain the power you so desperately crave.”

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